


the tonic of wildness

by gdgdbaby



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Consentacles, F/M, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tentacles, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 03:20:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14179395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby
Summary: There's a monster that lives at the bottom of Biddeford Pool.





	the tonic of wildness

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on the [kink meme](https://podsavethekink.dreamwidth.org/659.html?thread=97939#cmt97939), cleaned up and expanded here.
> 
> frankly, i have no excuses for this. thanks to winterfold for looking it over; title from [walden](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/16933-we-need-the-tonic-of-wildness-at-the-same-time-that). happy easter!

There's a monster that lives at the bottom of Biddeford Pool.

Jon found it the summer he came here with Emily, Tommy and Hanna, what felt like his first real vacation since the campaign began in earnest seven years before. Back then, months after he and Tommy left the White House for good, it still seemed odd to be able to relax. Jon's shoulders still prickled every day with the phantom anxiety of another deadline, the creeping dread of waiting for the next political disaster to rear its ugly head, even though it wasn't his job to worry. Not anymore.

That long weekend, he hadn't been able to sleep well even with Emily breathing steadily next to him. He'd spent most of the first night slouched in bed, staring through the big bay windows out at the water. When Tommy asked about the dark circles under his eyes in the morning, Jon shook it off.

The second night, Jon slipped out of bed and grabbed a flashlight, padded across the rocks to a small alcove they'd visited earlier, during the day. The beach was full of crashing waves and pecking seagulls when the sun was out, but at night, it was quiet and cool and peaceful here. Jon could close his eyes and dip his toes into the water, feel the drift and curl of seaweed against his feet, and if something more intent swirled around his ankle to tug him under—

Well. Jon guesses it's more accurate to say that the monster found _him_.

 

 

They've tried to make it back up to Maine every summer since the first year. In the weeks leading up to their annual pilgrimage, a mixture of dread and anticipation always fills Jon's stomach each time he thinks about the trip, when Emily asks what she should pack, what he'd like to do while they're there. It's not like Jon can refuse to go; Emily's been summering at the family home since she was a kid. He'd follow her pretty much anywhere.

It's almost routine by now, picking his way to the cave in the dark, stripping down and sliding his feet into the water. Sometimes, with a little bit of distance, Jon wonders if there's something wrong with him, that he keeps coming back, seeking it out. Shivering in the cave, though, dick already getting hard just from thinking about what's going to happen, all of his qualms seem very far away.

He was scared, the first time. He isn't scared anymore.

It doesn't take long for the first tendril to curl around his ankle and wind up his leg, pull him into the shallows. Jon's always wondered how the thing knows when he's here, if it can see him or smell him or feel the ripple through the water when he steps in. Jon's stomach flutters as two tentacles, thick and pulsing, wrap themselves around his arms to hold him in place.

Surrounded by the rest of the bay, everything around him smells briny and old, but the tentacle that pushes into Jon's mouth tastes sickeningly sweet. Whatever slick drips off of this thing always tastes sweet, like a melting popsicle, coating the inside of his mouth. Jon doesn't know how many arms it has, how big it is, has never seen the monster in the cold light of day, in its entirety, but it's big enough to move him around bodily, arrange Jon so that he's drooping forward, face resting against a mossy rock beneath his head, tentacles curling around his thighs to spread them wide.

Years have passed since Jon's had bad dreams about causing a national crisis with some throwaway line in a speech, years since he hasn't been able to sleep well, but something about this—giving himself over, the vulnerability of it—still makes him feel so much calmer. Maybe it's something in the steady dripping slick being pumped down his throat, making his limbs feel heavy, a sharp tingle spreading out to Jon's fingers and toes.

Priming him, he thinks faintly. Getting him ready.

It should be cold down here in the water, miserable and wet, but Jon's entire body lights up with warmth as the first, smooth tentacle presses to his hole and starts sliding in. He can't make much noise around the tentacle gently fucking his mouth, but he tries to moan anyway, chokes a little when the tip of the tendril he's swallowing around hits the back of his throat and strains deeper.

They can't meet in the middle—it would be physically impossible—but it feels like that anyway, when the thick one against his ass wriggles further inside him, searching for—

 _Fuck_. Jon tries to thrash when the tip of the tendril rubs up against his prostate, but the tentacles around his arms flex and tighten, hold him in place, unyielding. He's completely helpless, legs splayed, the hard line of his dick bobbing in the water. There's nothing to thrust into, nowhere to go. He can't even push back properly. When a second tentacle bumps up against his ass next to the first, Jon squeezes his eyes shut and feels his whole body slump, relaxing all at once. The reason he's here is to be used like this, to take as much as he can bear and more. The second tentacle pushes past his rim, tucking itself in next to the first. It doesn't let up; the monster never gives him a moment to catch his breath. Jon feels so full, a water balloon stretched out until it's about to pop.

It's always hard to keep track of how much time passes, how many times he comes, when his mind is elsewhere, floating in the feeling of being split open. There are always entire pieces of it missing when he thinks back later—in the moment, all he can concentrate on is separate sensations: the way it feels like his body is burning up from the inside, how distended his stomach looks with four tentacles—maybe five, who knows—fucking into him, his dick leaking as it twitches, his jaw sore as he sucks weakly at the ones stretched past his lips.

Jon can feel it when the pumping starts getting more frenzied, the tentacles thrumming, vibrating in his mouth and his ass, which is how he knows it's almost over. He comes again on a shaky sob as the tentacles ram as deep as they can go, down his throat and up inside him; he tries to clench and ride it out, can't tell if the stickiness on his face is sweat or slick or tears. It doesn't matter. Coming involves more pain than pleasure at this point, but he likes that too, likes the desperate, strung-out soreness, the red marks on his skin where the tendrils have been holding him up.

The water lapping against him washes the jizz and filth away. He exhales through his nose, makes a bereft noise when the tendrils in his mouth retract. The other ones finally let him go, too, slide out and leave him empty. It takes Jon a long moment to catch his breath, collapsed against the rocks, ass squeezing around nothing, the feeling returning to his hands and feet in gradual increments.

After a minute, he unfolds himself slowly, wincing, and crawls back to the shore to shrug his clothes back on, hissing a little at the way the fabric chafes against his skin.

When he looks over his shoulder, the thing is sinking back in the water, tentacles bubbling beneath the gentle tide.

"Thank you," Jon says, voice trembling a little, throat fucked raw. He doesn't know if it understands, but it feels imperative to say anyway.

 

 

He trudges back to the house feeling empty and loose, legs wobbly. Shucks his clothes again in the bathroom and slides into the shower, leans against the glass and lets the hot spray envelop his body. He shouldn't be able to get hard again so soon, but he is, somehow, and he jerks off with two fingers tucked inside himself, tugging at his rim. It's not enough, but it's something.

Emily rolls over, half-waking, when Jon slides into bed next to her. "Babe?" she murmurs, and Jon runs a soothing hand through her hair, leans over to kiss her. Hopes she can't taste the lingering sweetness in the corners of his mouth. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," he says, settling an arm around her waist. "Go back to sleep."

In dark, quiet moments like this, Jon wonders how much she knows—if she knows anything about it at all, what Jon does when he takes long walks alone at night on the beach. She's been coming here for longer than he has. He wonders if she's met it before, wonders how she would feel if she could see him in the cave, if she would run away screaming or come closer, put her hand to his face to feel the way the tendrils move against his cheek.

They're in town for four days. Maybe, if Jon goes back again tomorrow night, the monster will do it again. Maybe this time, he'll bring her.

 

 

Their last night of vacation, Jon wakes up at half past three to an empty bed. The big bay windows are open, and the salty smell of the ocean drifts in, twining around him and filling his nose. For a moment, his head feels heavy with sleep, but it clears a little when he sits up.

Emily's not in the bathroom or the kitchen; the rest of the house is silent except for the faint sound of the tide washing back out. A look toward the beach through the windows facing the patio doesn't reveal anything, but it's mostly too dark to see much.

The skin on the back of Jon's neck prickles as he slips his feet into his shoes and grabs the flashlight off its customary hook. When he gets to the sand, he finds footprints that lead toward the cave, the shady alcove, and his heart thumps in his throat as he follows them carefully.

Jon isn't sure what he was expecting to find when he slid down the last rocky outcropping to get there, but it certainly wasn't what he's presented with: Emily sitting cross-legged on a ledge hanging over the water with a bright lantern at her feet, shadows cast all around the cave, one lazy pink tentacle curled up around her wrist. In the light, it looks almost translucent. 

"Emily," he manages, and his voice sounds like gravel. She looks over her shoulder, hair slipping out of the messy bun she's pulled it up in, expression faintly surprised. "Babe?"

"Hey," she says, like this is all totally normal. "Sorry, I couldn't sleep, and I didn't want to wake you." She blinks and gestures toward the second tentacle that's lifted out of the water, waving in front of her. "You've met Ceph?" She digs her fingers into the tendril wrapped around her wrist, and it pulsates gently. It's all Jon can do to grit his teeth against the way his dick reacts to _that_. Now is not the fucking time. "She doesn't like strangers, usually."

"Ceph?" Jon says, because it seems like the easiest thing to focus on.

"A nickname," she says, shrugging. "Dad said she was a cephalopod, and I was too little to pronounce it properly. We used to play on the beach in the evening, sometimes, when I was a kid. Dad and I would feed the seagulls and she would try to eat them."

"Right," Jon says, clearing his throat. "I guess you could say we've… met."

Her eyes, sharp and assessing, move from the tentacles toward his face, and her expression shifts when she sees his. A sharp sense of panic rises in Jon's stomach, flipping it over. "Jon—"

"Sorry, I should've—said something, but I didn't know how to—explain—"

"Hey," Emily says, and she hops down from the ledge to walk toward him, the tentacle monster gurgling in the water behind her. This is so fucking surreal; part of Jon thinks he must be in a dream. It's the only explanation. "Slow down, Jon. What are you talking about?"

Shame makes his throat go dry, makes it hard to speak for a second. "I, uh," he says, hands shaking. She reaches out to grab one, curls her fingers into his palm, still slightly slick from where she was touching the creature. "The first year we came here, I was out exploring at night, and it—she—um." He can tell his face is bright red. "Played with me? Jesus."

Emily's brow wrinkles. "Played with you, like," she says. "What?"

He's really going to have to say it. _I love being pulled apart and fucked by your childhood friend, the tentacle monster._ He takes a deep breath and mumbles, "I come here at night to get fucked, sometimes."

"Oh," she says, jerking back a little. She blinks, once, twice. "I've never—wow. Shit, Jon."

"Sorry," he repeats miserably, stomach sinking like a stone. "I should've told you before."

She shakes her head. "I thought you were just communing with nature, or something," she says, almost to herself.

The laugh that falls out of Jon's mouth is tinged with hysteria. "No. No, not just that. I know it's weird, I didn't think—"

"It's not like I haven't, um," she says, cutting him off too quickly, ducking a little, hair falling into her face. "It's not like I haven't thought about it before."

Jon freezes. Her hand twitches in his. "What?"

"I've thought about it before, Ceph and the tentacles, but I've never—I've never done it." Emily reaches up to tuck her hair back behind her ear, pauses to bite her lip before she meets his eyes again. "I wanna watch," she says, louder. The light from her lantern is more muted down here, but her face is pink now, too, he's pretty sure. "I wanna see."

Jon tries to reel back, but Emily's fingers dig into his skin and hold on. "What?" he repeats, breathless. "You—"

"Show me what you do," she says, voice sliding into something more commanding, decisive, and—fuck, he's fully hard now, despite his best efforts to keep everything under control. He can't help it, not here, not when Emily sounds like that. Not when he can see the tentacles, at least seven of them now, drifting up from the water.

"Okay," Jon says, swallowing thickly. "Okay—okay, just let me—"

Emily lets him go, and Jon hands her his flashlight, steps out of his shoes and his boxers, tugs his shirt over his head. She glances down at his erection, eyes luminous in the low light, watches the way he shivers, and lifts a trembling hand to her mouth.

"Last call," he says, and it's a weak joke, but her eyes crinkle. Jon always likes making her smile.

He turns toward the rocky shore and dips his toes in, anticipation making him feel dizzy. One tentacle reaches up to twine around his leg, but it doesn't drag like it usually does. He steps in, wading until he's waist deep, and lets the water take him.

Jon's never done this with this much light in the cave; it makes everything take on a gauzy quality, like something spun out of a storybook, a fairy tale. Every squelch seems amplified in his ears, making them ring. One tentacle wraps around Jon's throat to pull him upright, unbends him so his spine is straight and his shoulders are pulled back as two tentacles wrap around his forearms to lock them behind him, like it's—like the tentacle creature's putting on a show, wants Emily to see everything. There's nowhere to hide.

"Oh my God," Emily says faintly. She sits down, as close to the water as she can get without getting wet, and the tentacles around Jon nudge him toward her until she's within arm's reach, Jon's knees bumping against the smooth rocks in the shallows, water lapping at his thighs.

Jon opens his mouth to say—God, he doesn't even know—but before he can make a sound, a tentacle squirms past his lips. Jon inhales sharply through his nose and swallows around the slick pumping down his throat, used to it by now, and Emily's eyes pop wide open.

"Wow," she says again, and it sounds awed this time, her breath caught in her throat.

A thinner tentacle, soft and wet, curls around Jon's dick, pumping him slowly, and he moans around the tentacle, jerking a little against the ones holding him in place. Emily's eyes drift down to watch; she's barely blinking, like she wants to see everything, remember everything. Something warm bursts in his chest, fondness and the purest sense of relief, that she knows now, that she hasn't abandoned him, that she seems as arrested as he is, even without tentacles wound around her limbs.

He sighs and lets his eyes drift shut when the tentacle creature starts fucking into him. It winds him up, thrusting rhythmically, until he's shuddering with every stroke. He's not going to last very long like this, but it's okay. It's okay. This isn't for him. It's for Emily.

Jon opens his eyes again when he hears Emily gasp, and it takes him a minute to realize—a tentacle has slid up her thigh and past the hem of her shorts, too. "Jon," she says, panting, reaching out so she can touch his face, and he comes like that, swift and unexpected, watching the tentacle move against her beneath the fabric of her clothing.

The thick coil around his neck constricts, not enough to cut off his breath entirely, but enough that he feels light-headed when he spirals down from orgasm. Emily leans closer, hips shifting, and curls her arm around his shoulder. "I'm gonna come," she says, tight, and presses her mouth against the hot skin of his cheek. "You're—Jon, you look gorgeous like this, you're not allowed to do it without me anymore, okay?"

Jon manages to nod, frantic, and she makes a high, desperate noise, free hand grasping blindly at the tentacle wriggling against her. Her eyes flutter shut as she comes, and Jon wants to reach out and hold her through it, but the tendrils flex around him, keep pumping him full of slick, and it's impossible not to lose himself in the feeling.

It's okay. They've got all night. Jon lets the rush tug him under.

 

 

"How do you feel about getting married here, next year?" he murmurs later, when they're showered and clean and curled up in bed, pressed close to each other beneath the sheets. One of Emily's legs is tossed over his hip, and he can feel how wet she still is, can still feel the fine tingle in his body, the sore stretch of his muscles. He feels like he's just run a marathon, but also that he could run another at any moment's notice.

She chuckles against his neck, nosing at his pulse. "I feel pretty good about it," she says, reaching back to slide a finger along the rim of Jon's hole, and laughs when he pushes back against it. He feels pretty good about it, too.


End file.
